Gone
by IndieWrites
Summary: Directly after the end of the war, Harry finds himself confronting Draco in an all too familiar bathroom. Will history repeat itself, or will they final come to an understanding? Rivals? Friends? Or More? HP/DM


Disclaimer: Not mine. Harry and Draco belong to Rowlings still.

Pairing: HP/DM.

Warnings: Strangeness...mild slash, mentions of blood and death, language. You know... my usual.

A/N: Had this sitting in pieces on my hd, and thought I might as well put it all together and try to come back into the world of writing. It started off as a teaser while listening to "Dumbledore's Farewell" from HBP soundtrack- probably one of the most lonesome songs on the scores. And with it came the idea of Draco looking back and seeing the school with their wands raised. You have to wonder, as he left, what was going through his mind. I'm kinda introspective about the final 3 movies, in that there is a lot going on in the main characters' minds that leaves much to examine.

Then, it evolved from there into the 'what if' possibilities of the end of DH. I should warn that there is spoilers for DH2 in here, just a tiny bit- movie only. I almost went for the smut, but felt there are already several out there that end with Draco getting his wand back, and Harry/Draco smut. So I went for some sort of messed up fluff, I think. Hope it is at least somewhat enjoyable.

erm... and Foolish Games readers...I will be updating soon. I just have to wrap my brain around something not so angsty, which is very hard with my current frame of mind. Sorry to leave you all hanging.

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><p><em><strong>Gone<strong>_

The shouts of cheer and the wails of those mourning mix together in a macabre rush of sounds. It's overwhelming, crashing around him like the storm tossed waves on a crag. It hurts, and so he pulls away from arms meant to be comforting, and words of thanks. He's called a hero, but he doesn't really feel that way. His hands, crusting with drying blood, tingle in pain. His legs, fueled by adrenalin earlier, now tremble and threaten to collapse under him. The hard holly wood in his back pocket remind him that he cannot rest yet, no matter how urgently he wishes to.

Eyes peering behind broken lenses search the gathered crowd of staff, students and refugees. Looking for pale blond. For the boy he would love to hate, but just can't seem to bring himself to. They are too alike, and he knows that to hate him would be to hate himself. They have clashed so many times over their years as classmates. And yet... he remembers the feel of Draco's arms tightening around his waist as they fled the fire. Remembers the harsh breaths against his neck better than Ginny's sloppy kiss. He knows the blond was not at his parents side, at Voldemort's side before their final confrontation.

He knows the wand in his hand wasn't really his, knows that somehow it had an affinity to them both. Serves as a tie that binds them. Without it, he would have died... twice... tonight. He can't help but wonder why.

So he looks, and he searches for those silver eyes and the haughty, or not so haughty, head. It's not easy, although it should be. Feeling a bit panicked, he wonders if Draco has slipped away, seeking solace like he so desperately desires. It strikes him that the Slytherin has lost friends as well, knows the pain others are feeling. And he muses over that fact, driving home the humanity proclaimed to him now.

It seems a fruitless endeavor; the Malfoy is simply not there. It is disappointing, to say the least. With a glance about to his friends, he shakes his head and slips through the crowds. The deadening sound of silence is almost a shock to his system after so much noise. The wreckage of the castle lays before him, and he wants to weep for the desecration of such a beautiful structure. Does Hogwarts herself feel agony, drowning in the sorrows played out in her halls? Does she mourn the loss of her students, her Professors? Can she feel the blood drying on her steps, spilled needlessly?

The sound of a tortured gasp ripped from a broken throat reaches his ears and he moves towards it, hoping to have found his query. It seems odd, and yet perversely poetic that it should be the girls lavatory again, the very one they had their tragic fight it. Was it only a year ago? How old he feels.

His steps are purposefully loud this time, allowing the other to know of and anticipate his presences. He doesn't bother to draw his... _Draco's_... wand. There is no need for such actions now. In the dim light of the fading evening, clutching a white broken sink as if it was the only thing holding him up, is Draco. His eyes hazy in the cracked mirror, wide with panic, his bleeding hand grasped into his shirt, staining it even more than it already is. It is exactly as they were before, back on that horrible day filled with curses, screams and blood. He freezes in his actions, staring at the dark haired boy behind him.

"Come to gloat, Potter?" he asks, trying for a sneer. It fails as his voice is shaking too much and his eyes glassy with shed tears. He gulps audibility and turns, braced for a blow. Harry scowls, his lips turned up in a horrible smile, cracking his dry lips, making them bleed. He swipes his arm across them, his blood joining that of others.

"Would it really do me any good?" he replies.

Draco appears stunned and silently looks away. "When does anything you do, done you good?"

Anger boils up briefly in Harry chest and he has to resist the urge to punch the boy. "Tch," he scoffs. "Whatever. I didn't come to fight."

Slightly curious, Draco frowns, glancing back to Harry's wandless hand. "No? That's a first." He mockingly bows. "So tell me, Oh great savior, why I, a humble lowly Death Eater, is so graced with your presence? I'm sure you have other adoring fans to cater to."

Harry shakes his head mutely, unwilling to play the game. He takes off his broken glasses and rubs at his eyes. They still sting from the exposure to spell residue and smoke. Blinking, he once again focuses on the blond before him.

Draco, he admits, wears the after battle look well. It's a silly thought, sticking in stark contrast to his rather chaotic ponderings. But stick it does, and he can't, or won't shake it at the moment. So he stares unabashedly until Draco shifts on his feet and wraps his arms around his stomach. "Stop," he whispers in a fragile voice, cracking with the raw emotions still too close to the surface.

Harry knows that feeling, understands the nauseating burn of panic, the strange emptiness afterward. Still, he peers at Draco as if he was a curious duck on display. "We've been here before," he comments, almost at an afterthought.

Draco raises his head a bit, confusion filling his eyes. "What?"

Harry gazes around the room, a strange smile on his face. "Don't you remember?"

It's a weird question said with a maniacal tone and Draco flinches. Harry can see by his expression that he is questioning Harry's sanity.

Harry himself isn't sure.

"We fought here. You tried to _Crucio_ me. I almost killed you." He wanders away a bit, then stops and glances over his shoulder. "Right here, in fact."

"Potter?" Draco calls, concern tinging his voice. Harry turns hollow eyes to his companion.

"_Remember?" _he hisses.

Draco nods, unsure what else to do.

"I know," Harry begins again. "What happened that night. I know."

"What night?"

"When you tried to kill Dumbledore."

Blanching, Draco stumbles. "H-how?" he stutters out.

"Invisibility cloak. I saw it all." He smiles brokenly. "Betch'a didn't know it was planned." He laughs as Draco's face loses all color, his eyes huge and teary.

"Planned?" he chokes.

"Planned." Harry laughs again, the sound hauntingly shattered. He shakes his head rapidly. "Tell me, Draco," he pauses, seeing the stunned look on Draco's face as he says his rival's name. "Did you feel anything as you stood there, looking down on his body at the bottom of the tower? He was your Headmaster too, after all. And he died right in front of you."

The statements resounds around them, echoing emptily off the wet walls. No one had ever really talked to Draco about that night. It had all been brushed under the rug. His flight for his life amidst the chaos, the insane cackling of his Aunt burning through his ears. The cold terror that seized hold of his heart, not releasing him until this very night. He thinks about it all, his skin turning clammy with sweat, his eyes blurring with unshed tears.

It dawns on him then that he's never had the time to mourn the losses he has seen. Even if he thought the old man was a manipulative coot, barmy in his keen desire to elevate his sacrificial lambs, there is still a part of him that wishes he could believe differently. Wishes that the wizard had been close to him like he was with Potter.

He sneers. "What would you know?" he asks spitefully.

Harry cocks his head to the side. "I know you ran like a little puppy, tail tucked between your legs," he taunts.

There is an almost audible snap as the last of Draco's will falls to his feet. His head jerks up swiftly and his silver eyes shine with a fire Harry hasn't seen in months. Inwardly he smirks, and waits.

"Don't you get it?" Draco yells. "I wanted to be there, dammit. I did. I wanted to hold up my lit wand, to feel the pain and loss you did. But I couldn't." He pulls at his blond hair, mussing it horribly as his feet rapidly eat up the floor beneath him. His is face broken, his voice cracking. "You... you can't imagine what it was like to run away. I know! I know I was the fucken coward here. I know...and I didn't want to. You all paint me up to be this heartless snake. But I'm not... I'm not." His legs give out and he sinks to the ground, one hand hovering over his heart.

Harry lets him sit there for a moment, the shallow gasps of hidden sobs floating around them. One moment passes, two... until he can't stand it any longer.

"Get up," Harry hisses out, torn between the pitiful picture Draco presents and his own indignation. It should be funny, to see the older boy brought down so low. And yet, he couldn't find the will to laugh. The raw anguish of that night is still fresh, still so perfectly frozen in his mind that he has to wonder if he hasn't become frozen as well. Heartless to another's plight, willing to allow the prideful Malfoy to wallow at his feet. "Show me you twice damned pride. Come on, Draco. Get up."

Raising shattered silver eyes to his nemesis, he stares at the hand offered him, unsure of his next move.

"I said get up," Harry's voice rises. "Get up, get up, **get UP!**" Those greener than green eyes glare challengingly at him, demanding he accept, begging him to understand. Harry's face, bleeding and bruised, bears the scars of the night's events. His expression- a mask again- determined not to show too much emotion, rips into Draco's heart. He is just as broken, maybe more so. Understanding fills his being, the knowledge of what Harry had tried to do for him in the past half hour or so brings a cord of warmth.

Slowly, shakily, Draco reaches out and grasps Harry's hand, his palm slick with sweat and blood. Harry's is much the same and for a moment, they- two lost little boys in roles too big for them to play- stand as equals. The past be damned, and could be damned. They suddenly have a future to live and look forward to. Eyes locked, Draco pulls himself up, stopping a hairbreadths away from the hero.

"Do you," he breathes. "Do you remember what you said when we met here?"

Unable to look away from the intense fire now burning bright in Draco's gaze, Harry nods, the air moving tantalizingly between them. "I do."

"Do you think we could have been friends?"

Harry shrugs. "Maybe," he whispers, his lips brushing against Draco's chapped ones.

"And now? Can we now?" Draco asks, shivers traveling the length of his spine as his words filled Harry's mouth.

"No," Harry replies, leaning into Draco. Their lips make full contact, a soft touch, that soon grows heated. They spend minutes learning everything about each other from the press of their lips, the sweeps of their tongues, the grip of their hands. Fingers dance across cloth and skin, mapping fiery pathways into their minds. They are lost in a storm of their own creation, neither willing to relinquish what they have discovered. Words are useless, there is nothing left but raw feelings, brutal and primal, and yet beautifully sweet.

Pulling back slightly, hands on hips and in hair, they look at each other like they have been lovers for years instead of hateful rivals. Acknowledgment and apologies for past sins stand unspoken, the need for the actual words long past. A smile, the first real smile Harry has ever seen on the blond's face, brings about breathtaking beauty, and soon they are lost again in the waves of passion.

A peace settles on them as they stand wrapped together, and Harry has to wonder if Hogwarts is healing their broken souls, giving them what they need in each other. Draco brushes dirty locks from Harry's forehead, pressing a soft kiss to the red scar. "What now?" he asks softly.

The echoing calls of Harry's friends breaks into their private space. Draco sighs and goes to move away. Harry's hand tightens on his hips.

He smiles. "I know a place..."

Draco smirks back. "Mmm... and your fans?"

Smoothing his hand over Draco's pale cheek, he shakes his head. "They'll keep. I, for once, am going to do something for me."

"Oh?" Draco asks cockily.

A serious look crosses Harry's face and he tangles his fingers with Draco's. "Come with me?"

Draco understands the underlying request. It's a heavy one, filled with change. He knows what Harry wants, and for once, he doesn't think twice. With a kiss pressed to Harry's lips, he nods. "Let's go; they'll find us soon if we don't."

A sigh of relief leaves Harry. With a crack, the bathroom stands empty, except for a ghostly girl with a wide smile on her face. Feet rush into the room, and voices call. And through it all, Moaning Myrtle stays silent, content to keep the secrets of two young men who have finally found what they were looking for all along.

Freedom, and each other.


End file.
